Sorrowful Remembrance
by Friday913
Summary: Her parents had been killed… She was alone, trapped in this unforgiving world all by her lonesome, a thirteen-year-old girl…. All she wanted to do was cry and run... OC story. Rated T for safety.
1. Chapter 1

Sorrowful Remembrance; Chapter One.

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Outsiders_.

This is my first fic, so don't be too harsh. And thank you to my grammar editor, LindseyBee.

Reviews are welcomed.

I walked around the park trying to take in what had happened. My parents were dead and I had hardly escaped the same fate. I couldn't remember the face of the killer—holding the gun to my parent's skulls. He shot them venomously—uncaringly, without a single regret. I looked at my tear stained face in the fountain that was near a small park just at the thought of it.

I walked around in the frosted air wondering how far I had run and how much I wanted to forget about tonight. The night that I, Friday Singer was now alone, for the first time being without my overprotective parents. For the first time I didn't _want_ to be. At least not this way; not dead. I let one tear fall from my hazel eyes. As I watched a blue Mustang creep over the street nearby, I noticed them stop abruptly. I saw two muscular guys stumble out and clumsily come over to me; they were drunk. I thought frantically, wondering if I should stand my ground and see what they wanted, or run off fearfully. I chose the latter in the end, though I still question if that had been the right decision.

I stayed as they walked closer. "Oh, look a little greaser girl!" he shouted, obviously referring to me. I wondered what a _greaser_ was. I didn't even know where I was, let alone the slang of my destination!

"What's a _greaser_?" I asked, and there was laughter from the guys. It annoyed me 'cause they weren't answering my question. "Can you answer my damn question!?" I yelled, which was a mistake because I was pinned to the ground with a switchblade pressed against the soft skin on my neck. I shrieked as the blade dug in, drawing blood.

"Shut her up!" one of them yelled, and the next thing I knew a rock was clashing with my skull, knocking me into unconsciousness.

I woke up in a strange place; I saw a neon DX sign hanging up, the 'X' flickering on and off obnoxiously. It took my brain a second, but I finally heard the sound of two guys' voices speaking worriedly. "She lost a lot of blood. Goddamn it, I hate them soc's," one of them growled. I think he was trying to whisper, but it didn't seem like he knew the definition—so every word he spoke was audible to my ears.

"How _dare_ they attack a girl greaser on our side of town? I can't wait till we smash their heads in during the next rumble." The same boy was still speaking, and he shrieked excitedly after completing his sentence.

I tried getting up, but a pained moan clawed at my throat so, I lied back down. The couch made a creaking noise—and suddenly the two guys were rushing over to my aid. "Oh…good, you're awake. We thought you were a goner!" the shorter one croaked. He seemed to be about eighteen-ish. He acted as though he knew me; maybe he did know me. I couldn't remember anything!

"I guess I wasn't," I said, grinning slightly. "Where am I? And where are my mom and dad?" Questions flooded my mind. Then I remembered the most important, to me anyways, "What's a greaser?" The two boy's exchanged awkward, confused glances at my question.

"You're not from around here, are you?" The one that was taller asked; his voice was velvety and soft—soothing, even. "Where _are _ya from?"

"I-I don't know," I stammered. I wondered who they were; the taller one looked like a movie star. The other looked like he was a fighter. I tried getting up again; I managed but then I felt myself slipping into numbness. The last I heard was something about me having to go to the hospital. I would have protested but I couldn't find my voice.

At the hospital the doctors said that I only had a minor concussion and that I would be fine once I got home. "What's your name, sweetie?" the nurse questioned. I replied Friday Singer. She looked up the name and her face dropped into a frown. "It says here that your parents died from a gunshot near your house. That makes you an…orphan, dear." Her voice was full of sorrowful remembrance—which brought all my memories tumbling back. My parents had been killed…I was alone, trapped in this unforgiving world all by my lonesome, a thirteen-year-old girl…. All I wanted to do was cry and run—which is what I did. I ran straight out of the hospital, not staring back, despite the shouts from the nurse's and doctors. I just wanted someone to talk to—seeing as I didn't know anyone from around here, I headed straight to the DX, longing for the voices of those two older boys' once more. As soon as I arrived, I quietly opened the door to the garage of the gas station.

"Steve, can you get me a wrench?!" I heard from the other room. I knew it was the taller one because of his voice.

"Sure thing, Pepsi-Cola!" the other boy, who I had identified as "Steve", yelled back, and then appeared in the room I was in. He seemed startled at first, but then he smirked and asked me if I was allowed out of the hospital already. I guess he noticed my face fall into a frown, 'cause he asked me what happened. I said that I had no place to live, but I didn't tell him exactly what happened. "Oh…" Steve made a sort of bitterly sympathetic face, but was interrupted before he could speak anymore.

"Did you get me a wrench yet?" I heard the other guy; I doubted that his real name was Pepsi-Cola.

"No, we have a visitor, Sodapop," Steve called to the other room. I heard footsteps echo from behind the door, and this "Soda" character entered the room. He looked at me with sorrow in his eyes, and I realized right away he knew my secret; the hospital had obviously called him.

-

Read&Review. (:


	2. Chapter 2

I do not own _The Outsiders._ (:

Thank you again to my editor, LindseyBee.

Enjoy;

"Hun, do you wanna stay at my house?" Soda questioned sympathetically, while his best friend gave him a queer sort of look which seemed to read; _how'd you already know she needed a place to crash? _Soda ignored the glance and stared at me with sad, sorrowful eyes—the sparkles within them were dancing to a sad song. I could tell he felt real bad for me.

Steve's puzzled glare bounced between Soda and I; questioning us with each glance. I opened my mouth, bracing myself to update him, but an inky-colored truck pulled up beside the gas station, averting my attention. A muscular guy stepped out and approached us. He was dressed in an all black shirt that was neatly tucked into his blue jeans. "You ready to go?" he questioned Steve and Soda.

"Yeah, Darry, but can a friend stay over?" Soda asked with curiosity. His eyes, bright blue in color, blinked cutely.

"Sure…. Where is he?" Darry said, mistaking the "friend" as someone other than me. Steve laughed obnoxiously, which caused a smirk to explode across Soda's face and a waft of confusion to strike Darry.

"_She's_ right here," Steve clarified, those gorgeous brown-green eyes twitching in my direction. A tiny smile curled my lips as butterflies invaded my gut, and I nodded. Darry glanced at me questioningly, and then focused his stare on Soda; Soda gave a little shake of the head saying not to ask. Darry simply shrugged his broad shoulders and instructed us to get in the car.

It only took a short while to arrive at a house—it was slightly dinky, and built on an unlit street. Come to think of it, it actually looked sort of bigger than the other homes—despite its size. I got up tiredly from the back seat and followed the guys inside. "So where am I sleeping?" I asked, so inaudibly that I was shocked to realize they had actually heard me.

"You can sleep in me and Pony's room…or the living room. Anywhere, actually," Soda answered. I preferred sleeping by my lonesome, so I chose the rickety couch. Sodapop nodded and left for the kitchen. Moments later, Darry ran after his brother, and I briefly heard him mutter something about food coloring.

I think Steve noticed my quizzical expression, because he explained things to me with a sly smirk. "Yeah, you heard right. Soda likes to get _creative _with his food. Makes eatin' a real fun thing around here." I didn't know what to reply, so I only smiled. Steve returned my grin, though distractedly—then disappeared to join his friend in the kitchen. Alone now, I wandered into the living room. The first thing I noticed was a boy, maybe eighteen years old, with rusty-colored hair and sideburns—he was wearing a blue Mickey Mouse shirt, tight around his stomach. He was kind of out of it, too—bottles of beer were surrounding his body, and his eyes were closed tightly, eyebrows crinkled. I had half a mind to assume he was dead, but his light snoring told me otherwise. I took a step towards him, but suddenly my foot found the bottom of a discarded glass bottle, and I fell on my behind.

When sideburns-boy woke up, he eyed me for a moment, then, assuming I was Soda's new girl, called into the other room tauntingly, "Hey Soda, I'm gonna steal your girlfriend. That okay with you?" Soda replied with a simple _that's Steve's girl_, and Steve laughed crazily while my cheeks burned crimson.

"Two-Bit, can you shut your trap? I'm trying to finish up my homework," an unidentified boy snapped. He was sitting at the couch—I had only just noticed him. He was a cutie, with blonde hair—though it seemed bleached, considering his roots were a rusty brown color.

"Oh…sorry, Pony, I was just joking with—uh, what's your name, kid?" Two-Bit asked me. I replied Friday Singer. He laughed obnoxiously when I admitted my name, and I grew irritated and stalked into the other room. Soda and Darry were in the kitchen—Darry was holding a tiny bottle of purple food dye far above Soda's reach.

"Darry, give me the food dye," Soda whined. I chuckled and wordlessly watched the show.

"No. Sorry, Soda, but you are _not _making the spaghetti purple," Darry said sternly, and Soda pouted and turned to me for support.

He grinned sweetly, his words pouring molasses, "Do _you_ want purple spaghetti, Friday?"

I considered it. "Sure, never had that before," I agreed. I liked Soda a whole lot—his creativity reminded me of my parents. Sorrowful tears raged in my eyes at the thought of my murdered family. Memories once again flooded my mind. I craved running away again. I craved forgetting everything. I felt hot tears streaming down my face and out of my blurry eyes I saw the gang, walking over to me with worried expressions. I got up and ran away once again. I kept running, ignoring the shouts again—just ignoring everything, as if setting the entire world on mute. My life felt like it was on repeat.

I kept on sprinting until I slammed into someone—a built someone too, considering how hard a hit my skull took. When I recomposed myself and stood up, I caught the eye of Steve, hovering in my path. He must've been running real fast to catch up with me—I was pretty decent at running.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, slightly heatedly. I was still crying, so I blubbered out my words, basically pouring my heart out to him. He didn't seem like the most sympathetic guy in the world—Soda probably would've been a better choice—but he was my one outlet at the moment and I was _going _to accept him.

Once I was finished my crying and explanation, Steve nodded and suggested we go back to the Curtis house. I sighed heavily and gave into his suggestion, and we both walked back. He kept his eye on me the entire time, making sure I didn't run off again.

We entered the Curtis household, but before anyone noticed us, I heard Darry, Two-Bit, Pony, and Soda's conversation. They were talking about going after me—but in pairs, just in case they were jumped by the socials. That reminded me of another one of my inner dilemmas. What _was _a social, anyway?

Finally, they seemed to notice us as Steve spoke up. Two-Bit was the first to remark on our reentrance.

"Well, looks like Steve has his girl back," he teased, and my cheeks flared red again while the entire group chuckled.


	3. Chapter 3

Sorrowful Remembrance

Chapter three.

Thank you to my editor, LindseyBee.

Please enjoy—and R&R.

-

I moved over to the couch while the boys finished up their dinner. Glancing at the television, I noticed that Mickey Mouse was on. That reminded me of Two-Bit, so I crowed out, "Hey, Mickey's on." Two-Bit reentered the living room with a beer and sat down mindlessly in front of the screen. I half-listened to Steve and Soda bickering over a poker game, while the other half of my mind was focused on the show. I found it to be pointless and wandered over to the best friends, listening to them quarrel. It was much more entertaining than the cartoon.

The two greasers were arm wrestling now. They were equally matched at the moment, but I predicted that Steve would win. He was obviously the most muscular of the pair. He wasn't as muscled as, say, Darry—but more so than Soda. "I can't wait till the next rumble. We're gonna beat those socs and they'll never come on our turf again…" Soda grumbled as he struggled against Steve's powerful arm.

"Yeah, me neither. They might get all the breaks but at least they won't have the joy of jumping us anymore," Steve grumbled, overpowering Soda. I'd decided hours ago that socs were the rich kids, making the greasers the less fortune ones.

"So when is this rumble, anyway?" I questioned. Soda and Steve's festivities ceased as they stared up at me. Actually, every guy in the room was looking at me now

"Why d'you wanna know?" Soda interrogated.

"Just wondering—anyways, it could be fun!" I said excitedly. Steve downcast his eyes and shrugged his shoulders, while Soda stared at me with a sympathetic frown. "What?" I asked, noticing their looks.

"You're not allowed to go, kid," Darry said from behind me. I whirled around to face him, demanding why I couldn't go. "Cause you could get hurt, that's why," Darry lectured. "Rumbles aren't fun and games. And besides, since I'm the unofficial leader of the gang, _I _get to call the shots."

"I wouldn't get hurt," I said, pursing my lower lip into a pout. I could handle a fight. Hell, maybe I'd even win. It couldn't be too hard—you just took swings at people, right?

"Do you even know _how_ to fight, country girl?" Two-Bit demanded, grinning cockily in my direction. I turned to face at him, my pout disintegrating into a glare.

"Just because I'm a _country girl_ doesn't mean I can't fight," I snarled.

"All right—give it a shot, then. Could you fight one of us right now?" Two-Bit's smile vanished into a poker face. His expression had no emotion, no nothing. Lifelessness.

"Yeah," I sneered, "I could probably pin you down in a few seconds." Two-Bit accepted my challenge and fought back as I tackled him. Unfortunately for me, I'd been wrong about pinning him down. He had _me _pressed against the carpet in a few short instants.

"Holler Uncle!" I struggled and kicked at Two-Bit to no avail. Sighing in defeat, I opened my mouth to give in to his demand, but then a more enlightened idea struck me. I pictured something depressing and stifled a grin as the crocodile tears slithered down my cheeks. The "false tears" act was something I'd used on my brother in the past. When we were younger, and before he'd been drafted into war, we'd wrestled on occasion—and I'd usually win. That is, until he'd discovered the secret to my success.

"Two-Bit, lay off. She's crying, you could be hurting her," Soda said sweetly. Two-Bit stared at me interestedly for a moment before rolling off. Big mistake on his part, 'cause I tackled him again. But it was pointless because, just as before, he had me pinned in a second.

"Well, at least she can use her head," Darry chuckled, offering me an impressed sort of smile. "Either way, though, we've still gotta teach her a thing or two about fighting."

My face was being pressed uncomfortably into the scratchy carpet now, so I surrendered with a muffled, "Uncle." Two-Bit stood up, snickering triumphantly and freeing me.

"Okay," I admitted with a sigh. "Maybe I'm not a real good fighter—but I can learn. I can be in the rumble."

"If we teach you in time, you can," Darry agreed, but I wasn't favoring the _if _in his sentence. I never liked if's. I always automatically considered if's to be no's, because they'd always been that way in my parents vocabulary.

"Gosh, I'm tired," Soda yawned, as Darry disappeared into what I assumed was his bedroom. "Who's staying tonight?" Steve explained that his dad had kicked him out so he was going to hang around a while. Two-Bit promised that he'd leave as soon as his television show ended. "Steve, where are you gonna sleep?" Soda added tiredly.

"Probably on the couch," Steve answered, staring at me from the corner of his eye. "Unless _you'd_ rather sleep on the couch," he continued.

"Nah, Steve, you know she wants to sleep with _you_," Two-Bit remarked obnoxiously. Steve turned his stare on me completely now. He seemed indifferent for a moment, then a smirk broke out across his face and he winked. I had to giggle because of how cute he looked when he did that.

"Naw, I can sleep in, uhh, Soda and Pony's room," I replied rather shyly. Steve nodded and plopped down on the couch. "So where is your room, anyway?" I continued quietly. Soda pointed to the doorframe that Ponyboy had vanished beyond earlier to complete his homework. "Got any blankets?" I added politely.

"Uh, sure, lemme get some," Soda told me. He went into a separate room and reappeared minute's later with a blue, quilted blanket. He beckoned me into his bedroom and placed the comforter on the floor. I nodded gratefully and laid down, watching as he rolled over beside Pony in his own bed. Pony was snoring softly, but Soda seemed more conversational than he was exhausted.

"So, d'you like Tulsa?" he asked me softly.

I considered his question and answered, "I like it here, but I still miss my family,"—then gave him a feeble grin, attempting to suppress my aching pain.

"Do you think you'd be able to, uh, count _us _as family someday?" Soda questioned seriously.

"I don't know," I mumbled honestly. "I still _have _a family. My brother. He's in war now, though," I explained, feeling painful tears well up in my eyes. I faced away from Soda quickly, hiding my sorrowful eyes from his reckless gaze.

"Do you like Steve?" Soda asked randomly, after five or so minutes of comforting silence. His question caught me off-guard.

"I like all of you," I replied slyly, still refusing to face him.

Soda chuckled, and I heard him shake his head against the pillow.

"I mean, _like _him. You look at him differently than the rest of us…" he clarified.

I heaved in a breath before giving him a response to co-exist with his question.

"Well…"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four – please read and review. And thanks again to my beta, LindseyBee.

BTW: Sorry it takes FOREVER to post… I am usually busy doing school work or other things… Also my beta is to busy with her own story and editing other peoples story (Even though I know where she lives *holds up knife evilly*)

Lastly, this is not a romance…. Steve and Friday will not date and if they do they wont last long

I fought internally with myself, deciding whether or not I should tell him. I chose to in the end—I trusted Soda. He wouldn't tell…_right_?

"Yes…kind of. Ugh…I don't even know…" I sighed and stared the Curtis straight in the eye. "You won't tell him though…right?" I asked.

Soda nodded pleasantly and yawned. _Boy is he tired_, I whispered to myself, watching as he silently drifted off. After five more minutes or so of my wakefulness, I mentally admitted defeat and paced, rather aimlessly, around the room. I went to close the door, which happened to be slightly opened and creaking as it swayed back and forth thanks to an eerie sort of draft in the air, but before I could shut it a quiet voice spoke "Boo" from behind the wood. I gave a minor flinch and looked to the face the tone had come from; Steve.

"What are you doing up, kid?" he interrogated.

"I could ask you the same thing…" I mumbled sleepily, then shrugged my shoulders and continued with, "I couldn't sleep."

"Oh…. Wanna watch some T.V.?" Steve offered. I agreed instantly—why not? Good-looking guy, late night television—it didn't get much more decent than that.

Mickey was on _once again _when we flick the glowing box to life. Steve must've decoded the irritated expression on my face, 'cause he said,"We can change the channel. I hate the little rat anyways."

I grinned at Steve's kindness and nodded agreeably, countering his words with a, "It's a wonder how Two-Bit likes Mickey. I can't stand him." The channels flicked between Mickey and some other cartoon, neither of which appealed either me or Steve. In our boredom, the greaser asked to go for a walk, which I immediately agreed to.

"So you used to live in the country?" he questioned, matching my pace. I bobbed my head; country life was very much similar to the greaser lifestyle, just a bit poorer. Steve quit matching my slow pace and went ahead of me. I had to nearly jog to equal his steps. The neighborhood in which we were walking was sorta beat up, which made me feel a bit uneasy. And that troubled feeling only greatened when a red car, maybe a Mustang or something, turned the corner and circled the block.

The wind gave a sudden jolt, rifting through the sky in a gust. The air made me shudder, so I blew into my hands and covered most of my golden-haired head and face with my hood. The wind was whistling as it flurried against my body, icy cold with every blow despite my feeble protection. Then I heard a distinct noise that clearly wasn't the wind. It was a potent sound—the soft _vroooom_ of a car. I turned my head, witnessing the frame of, as I had guessed, a Mustang pulling up beside me and Steve. I knew they were the soc's almost instantly. I glanced at Steve, who was staring at the car just as I was.

"Hey, look—two greasers walking all by their lonesome," a tow-headed boy snickered. There was a small chuckle from the other socs. "Ha one of them is shaped like a girl," A tall blonde guy said—he seemed seventeen, maybe eighteen. The group laughed loudly, making my cheeks flush even redder than they were from the cold. Abruptly, a vast amount of wind blew against me, causing my hood to slide off my face. The soc's could see me clearly now. "Oh, she's girl! Sure looks boyish though. Look at her clothes." He was referring to Soda's clothing that he'd lent me.

"Well…at least I…uh…don't look like nerdy white trash!" I fired back while kicked dirt at the closest soc. I now understood why everyone at the Curtis household despised the wealthy thugs. They _deserved _to be hated. Like I said—wealthy thugs, that's all they were.

"Ya know—you should tell your girlfriend that she should shut her trap, or _you're_ gonna get it, greaser," the smallest soc, who actually wasn't that tiny, sneered.

"I ain't afraid of you," Steve hissed angrily. "And…and she's not my girlfriend!" he added hastily, spitting bitterly on the ground near the socs shoes.

"Oh, you wanna play it that way, grease ball?" The blonde one scoffed, flicking open a sharpened switch-blade. My face immediately lost every possible ounce of blood—they wouldn't really _use _that knife on Steve…would they?

I was so absorbed in my own fear that I didn't notice when Steve was tackled. Terrified out of my wits, I squeaked out a horrific, "Steve!" and frantically stared around for something to hit the socials with. Steve was getting slugged hard in the chest, and I became so panicked that I started throwing rocks at them. They were unharmed by the weak offense and punched Steve rougher, aiming especially hard at his face. I then found a decent alternative to the rocks—a beer bottle. I ran over to the blonde boy and shattered it over his head, shouting out a grim, "I do _not _look boyish!" The soc cried out in pain and retreated to his car, his buddies following cowardly beside him.

The social's shouted out, "You'd better watch it, greasers!" to us before skidding down the road. Once they had vanished around the corner, I looked to Steve who was clutching his nose—a small river of blood was seeping from it, trickling down his chin and neck.

"Need some help up?" I asked nicely, grinning proudly at my previous actions. The dumbstruck greaser grumbled a yes and accepted the hand I was holding out to him. Once he was standing up, he glared at my wrist in alarm. "What?" I asked anxiously, wincing as he grabbed my elbow and examined whatever it was that had caught his eye.

"That's a deep cut, kid," he muttered. I realized what had shocked him—there was a long cut, crisscrossing almost diagonally from my wrist to the middle of my arm.

Steve beckoned me down the street, wiping some blood onto his jeans—I wasn't sure if it was his or mine—as he stalked in the direction of the Curtis's. I followed his lead, flinching every time the wind touched my aching cut, and then sighing in relief when we arrived at our destination. Steve assessed my face closely as he arrived, then smiled and said confidently, "And don't listen to those socs. You don't look boyish. _I _think you're actually damn pretty." Then he left the room, wandering off to do whatever he needed to do—which left me thinking _that was the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me_.


End file.
